


Scratch Away the Doubt

by miasmatik



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (covered in blood), (in front of a corpse), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Bottom Will, Character death (not hannibal or will), Choking, Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal worships Will, M/M, Mostly overtones, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Hannibal, Possessive Will, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Season/Series 02, Top Hannibal, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 18:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatik/pseuds/miasmatik
Summary: Will makes his choice. Freddie doesn't like it. Hannibal does.(AU for Season 2, Episode 10: Naka-Choko)





	

**Author's Note:**

> see you all in hell

 

“You have never been more beautiful, Will.”

Fingernails biting into damp wood, Will shudders as the hand at the nape of his neck tightens with the words. His elbow collapses with the pressure and his cheek falls to the floor. A gentle thumb counters the gesture, caressing the back of his hairline in soothing circles as Hannibal hums above him.

“Painted in red.”

Will shuts his eyes, shivering and ignoring the liquid pooling beneath his cheek, rising to stain his lips, to fill his nostrils, to seep beneath his eyelids.

“Lost between delirium and triumph.”

With the hand not assuring his compliance, Hannibal grasps the edge of his hip, fingers digging in just enough to shock him back into the moment, before pulling Will to his knees. His spine protests the sharp incline, head still resting against the floorboards, breathing harsh and raspy to his own ears.

“Fretting so uselessly over losing control.”

Will tightens his hands into fists, attempts to measure his inhales and exhales in what he hopes is a regular pattern. Fingers trail beneath the front his button down, and Will’s breath hiccups when a confident palm flattens to the naked skin over his heart.

“When you’ve been longing for release all along.”

He can’t hear anything, eardrums pounding. Hannibal breathes against the back of his neck, brushes against the fine hairs there before moving to pour the next whisper directly into his ear.

“Relax, Will.”

It isn’t working, he must be hyperventilating by this point, no room left in his head or heart or lungs for peace.

“Will, I’ve got you. Come back.”

Hannibal’s fingers constrict against his chest, fingernails cutting shallow crescents into the flesh, and the effect is instantaneous. His lungs emptying in a rush, Will resurfaces. Hannibal is a warm, grounding weight against his back. They are both unharmed. He can open his eyes.

Hannibal’s lips move to press against his earlobe, teeth nipping at the cartilage. A soft whine escapes with Will’s next exhale.

“That’s it, Will. Let me hear your voice.”

Relaxing further into the nails pressing at his ribcage, Will shifts beneath the hand still tight around his neck. He swallows to combat the dryness of his throat and replies.

“Hannibal.”

“Very good. Humor me, please: name, time, location?”

Licking his lips, Will opens his mouth to respond.

“My name is Will Graham. I don’t- I don’t know what time it is. It’s late.”

Hannibal bestows another kiss just behind his ear.

“And we’re in my living room.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s smile against the back of his neck, just before the hand that has been holding him down releases its grip. He keeps his head against the floor in obedience anyways.

“And what, dear Will, happened before your panic attack?”

With his heartbeat returning to normal, Will can once again hear the slow _drip drop drip_ disrupting the silence of the room. If he really concentrates, he imagines that he might feel the splash against his face, the taste already upon his tongue. As it is, he tilts his gaze upwards. 

His eyes travel up the base of the wooden chair a couple feet away, skim over the legs strapped to it. They graze past the stylish boots, jeans, flit over a blouse bound by rope and pattered with dark, artfully streaked stains. Up, up, up all the way to the severed neck and unseeing eyes of Freddie Lounds. 

“I killed her.”

“Yes,” Hannibal purrs against him, “You did. Tell me how.”

Will reaches a hand back without conscious thought and Hannibal envelops it in his own. It isn’t imagination that he can taste blood in his mouth; after all, the whole floor is soaked in it.

“The knife,” Will’s gaze flicks to sharpened steel lying between them and the body. “I, I used it to slash her throat.”

“Why, Will? Why did you kill her?”

Will turns his neck and presses his forehead against the growing pool of blood. His lips graze liquid as he draws in a calming breath.

“To protect you. To protect us.” He stops. Continues. “Because I wanted to.”

Hannibal lays another kiss against the nape of his neck before he shifts away from the close press of their bodies. Before Will can complain, Hannibal uses their joined hands to roll the younger man over. Will shudders as he’s guided to lay flat on the floor, the cloth of his shirt soaking up Freddie’s still-warm blood like a sponge. He feels his curls grow sticky with it, his scalp no doubt staining wine red beneath, but he’s far more fixated on the attentions of the man hovering above him. 

Hannibal notices and sends him a satisfied smile, raises their hands to lay kisses to each of Will’s knuckles. 

“My very own mongoose, bringing home snakes for dinner.”

There’s a dead body little more than an arm’s length away and he’s soaked head to toe in her blood. Will has never felt more alive.

“Recount for me again, how did you come into possession of Ms. Lounds?”

Hannibal moves his free hand to the top button of Will’s shirt, pauses above in quiet expectation. His eyes track the movement of Will’s throat.

“She came here looking for me,” Will begins, electrified in turn by Hannibal’s undoing of his first button. “When I wouldn’t answer the door, she broke into my barn.”

“Quite rude of our little snake.”

The pad of Hannibal’s index finger traces over newly bared skin, lingering long enough to elicit a shiver before he moves onto the next button.

“Continue,” Hannibal prompts.

“She found what’s left of Randall Tier. And then she found me.”

Another button. Will’s voice lowers to a whisper.

“I knew I couldn’t let her go. I knew that no matter what she said, no matter what I told her, she would tell Jack and they’d come after you next.”

Hannibal’s lips curl further upwards, “And why, Will, was that idea so unfathomable? You’ve hardly shied away from testing me before.”

Will reaches up to grasp beneath the knot of Hannibal’s white paisley tie. His fingers smear blood over the fabric, but if Hannibal takes offense, he doesn’t show it.

“Because,” Will says, grip tightening as he pulls the older man to lean further over him. “They can’t have you.”

Hannibal blinks at him from inches away. His expression is frozen in something akin to adoration.

Will leans up as he drags Hannibal down and closes the distance between their mouths. They remain in stasis for a moment, lips pressing together like this for the first time. Will can feel his pulse ratcheting up again, but the feeling is pure anticipation. Then Hannibal bites into his lower lip, and on the next breath he’s being consumed.

His skull knocks to the floorboards as Hannibal drives him down. He raises their joined hands above Will’s head, fingers squeezing together, and Will moans around the tongue curling against his own. It’s appropriately rough, biting and licking punctuated by Hannibal’s dexterous removal of his remaining shirt buttons. 

It feels inevitable. 

The voice in his head that sounded like Jack, the one that screamed at him as he guided the knife through Freddie’s flesh like butter, has gone silent. 

Hannibal draws back and untangles their fingers. He sets both hands beneath the unbuttoned halves of Will’s shirt, parts soaked fabric away from skin. Will sees himself through Hannibal’s eyes: a creature borne from blood, pale under bright Virginia moonlight, matted wings of cloth flaring around him. 

He tilts his head, baring his neck as Hannibal’s hands return to trace the lines of his torso. His own hand slides down Hannibal’s tie, across the prim vest, to settle against one of the thighs straddling his.

Will thinks about dragging a struggling Freddie away from her car, her heels digging and kicking at the snow. He relives feeling her breath grow shallower under the pressure of his forearm as he choked her into unconsciousness. He’d had no time to plan ahead, to prepare or act outside of instinct. He’d tied her to a wooden chair in his living room to give himself more time to think. 

He’d thought about calling Jack, explaining the situation. He thought about showing up to Hannibal’s house with false news of Freddie’s death, weaving the lies between them tighter. Of utilizing this opportunity to cement the newer, darker trust beginning to foster. Of receiving both Hannibal and Jack’s approval, for however long this lasted. 

He’d thought of Hannibal cupping the back of his head, whispering words of chrysalises and devotion. Their lips inches apart and their eyes locked in understanding.

Will made his choice.

As far as he was aware, no one knew she had come to see him. Freddie worked alone and had made enough enemies over the course of her career. A sudden disappearance, he’d decided, wouldn’t really surprise anyone.

Randall Tier had been a test. Perhaps a gift. But his death hadn’t been Will’s design. 

Freddie’s would be.

He’d driven her car back to Baltimore, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel with resolve. He kept his head down as he passed through the traffic cameras that would support the story he’d later recount to Jack: that Freddie had left Virginia before her disappearance. Her cell phone lay dismantled on the seat beside him.

His mind had been clear when he’d ditched the car on the outskirts of the city. He smashed a window for good measure, emptied her purse into the foot well, and removed the camera and tape recorder. He’d burned the film and overwrote the recording. Discarded the electronics in a garbage bin a few blocks away. Walked over a couple more blocks and flagged a cab.

“I needed you to see.”

When Hannibal opened his front door to find the younger man on his doorstep, Will had simply asked for a ride back to Wolf Trap.

“I needed to be _seen_.”

The look on Freddie’s face when Will walked back into the house, Hannibal in tow, had sent a frisson of excitement through him. He’d closed the door, careful to keep the dogs outside, before turning to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

He’d stood there, watchful and waiting as Will approached Freddie with the knife. A makeshift gag had muffled her curses and pleas, but Will had wavered. The slightest tug of wrong in the back of his mind. They both noticed it: Freddie meeting his eyes with increasing desperation, Hannibal stepping close to steady the tremor in his arm. The warmth of Hannibal’s palm beneath his elbow, the encouragement evident in the twist of his lips, had given Will the push he needed.

Freddie’s garbled scream rang in his eardrums as he’d pressed the knife to her flesh, pushing forward until the first bloom of red welled beneath the metal. Hannibal had brushed a thumb against his nape, smiled with pride, and in one swift stroke, Will had drawn the blade across her neck.

Red mist and then blinding white until he came-to on the blood-stained floor, Hannibal relishing in his unraveling and soothing him with tender words in turn.

“I’m just as twisted as you,” Will says, eyes rolling as Hannibal’s mouth works its way down his torso, licking away spots of blood drying against his skin. 

“You are perfect.” 

Hannibal withdraws, angular features silhouetted by moonlight as he looms above Will in the dark of the living room. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to bare his teeth at that, so Will does.

“Perfect for you.”

Hannibal considers him, eyes twin pinpricks of focused intent. Then he retrieves the knife beside them in a flash of movement, and metal slices through the cheap leather of Will’s belt. Will jerks in reflexive alarm when Hannibal draws the blade down further, then chokes when fingers wrap around his throat in warning.

The knife skirts along the line of his zipper, metal scraping metal with just the slightest pressure, before following the line back up towards the tab. He remains motionless despite his growing need for air. Hannibal does not loosen his grip. Will watches the knife clatter to the ground in his peripheral vision as Hannibal finally unzips him.

Fingers curl under his boxers, around his flesh, and Will breathes a ragged gasp beneath the hand bruising his windpipe. Hannibal’s palm envelopes his length in perfect smooth heat and he could almost cry it feels so good, so right. He tightens his grip on Hannibal’s thigh and spreads his own wider in accommodation, aware only of the need to get closer, feel more, receive what he’s denied himself so long.

Hannibal is all too happy to comply.

He retrieves his hands long enough to wrestle the jeans down Will’s hips, to pull and prod the younger man into naked compliance before resettling between Will’s thighs. He leans down to press their mouths back together, to coax breath back into Will’s lungs. Will doesn’t realize that the distraction allowed Hannibal to remove his tie until his wrists are guided above his head and secured with knotted fabric. Loose enough to allow escape, but he has no need for that now. 

“Tell me something, Will.” 

Hannibal pulls back to command his gaze.

“Have you imagined yourself like this before?”

Will parts his lips, breathes. “Like what?”

Hannibal smiles, trails his fingers past Will’s straining length, over the skin beneath his testicles. His touch alights each nerve it crosses. Will shudders.

“Baptized in blood,” Hannibal murmurs into his mouth, fingers circling against his perineum, “and worshipped by my hand.”

The younger man pants, resists squirming under the tender onslaught of sensation, but the words drag him back into some manner of self-awareness. He’s aware enough to turn his next words into a breathless purr.

“I’ve dreamt about you,” Will agrees. “About how good it would feel to cut you open. Bathe in the darkness I’d find inside. Wear it over my skin.”

He jolts when a finger rubs over his hole. He’s never been touched there before, never had the desire to let someone do this to him, but he wants it now and that spurs him on.

“And then I’ve thought about letting you do the same to me. Letting you use me, take everything from me.” Will pauses, a phantom twinge of bitterness creeping into his tone, “as if you haven’t already.”

The finger stroking him retracts and Hannibal appears unbearably smug. 

“My dear Will,” he begins, tone indulgent. Cat that caught the canary pleased. “I believe you still have a few things left to lose.”

Will gapes. 

Then he snarls, pushes up, and growls.

“Get your hands back on me and in me and stop teasing before I rip your fucking throat out.”

He digs teeth into Hannibal’s neck, feels him shiver. It’s almost indiscernible, and Will smirks with the damning knowledge. The sensation that rushes up within him is not unlike the one he felt watching Freddie’s neck part _so perfectly_ for his blade. He wonders if he blanked out from the sheer excitement.

“If you do,” Will whispers, drawing back with hooded eyes and a smile he’s sure is offset by the blood at his mouth, “I’ll let you live.”

Will places a feather-light kiss upon the doctor’s cheek. Hannibal returns his smile tenfold, gliding a thumb to rest at the corner of Will’s grin.

“Beloved, all you had to do was ask.”

When Hannibal pushes his thumb into Will’s mouth, the younger man complies without hesitation. He moves to align their bodies closer as he takes two more fingers between his lips and sucks. He keeps his eyes on Hannibal’s the entire time. It’s why Hannibal is able to pull his fingers away before Will even recognizes his own newborn impulse to bite down. He has a moment to entertain the thought of swallowing the doctor’s lovely fingers whole. Then Hannibal’s pushes a spit-slicked digit inside him. 

The sensation is strange, a little unpleasant, but part of Hannibal is pushing _inside_ him – physically, finally – so Will hisses and claws at back of the older man’s collar, a refrain of _need need need_ buzzing around his mind. When Hannibal crooks his finger just so, brushes against his prostate with practiced confidence, Will’s hiss recedes into a sharp whine. His vision blurs, and for a second he fears he’s going to lose time again, or wake up to realize this was all a fever dream.

“Stay here with me, Will,” Hannibal demands, the husk in his voice betraying the careful composure of his features. 

Will blinks back into clarity. He pants and nods and is attempting to regulate his breathing when a second finger joins the first. He yelps when another threatens to follow right after, his body trying to move away. The distraction allows Hannibal to trap bound wrists above his head once again. Knuckles press up against his perineum and the two fingers sink fully into him. 

“Ahh, f-fuck!”

Hannibal wastes no time twisting and pulling him apart, fingers scissoring and stretching him before Will’s even grown used to their weight inside. It feels like every ridge, every whorl of the older man’s skin is scraping away his control, stripping away coherent thoughts and alighting raw nerve endings. It’s both too much and not enough. 

He realizes he must be babbling as much when Hannibal grips under his thigh and pushes it forward, pressing Will’s knee into his chest and forcing him further into supplication. The position allows Hannibal to draw back, tilt his head down, and spit into the exposed crease of Will’s ass. The crude gesture nearly short-circuits the younger man’s remaining brain cells. He loses cognition altogether when Hannibal uses the makeshift lubrication to push a third finger inside him as well.

Moisture catches at the corner of clenched eyes, teeth grind in his skull, and Will is falling into pieces. His fingers spasm weakly as Hannibal releases his thigh and returns to lace his own into them. His thumb caresses the skin of Will’s palm even as he holds him down, a facade of tenderness as his other hand reshapes the younger man’s insides to match his desires. He presses lips to the crease between Will’s eyebrows. 

“Even the most vivid imagination could not conjure a vision as radiant as you.” 

Will whines, curls his legs around the older man’s waist to anchor himself. It hurts.

“H-Hannibal, I can’t-”

“You can,” Hannibal corrects. “Won’t you, Will?”

He’s shaking his head back and forth, tears threatening to spill, desperation clawing its way from beneath his ribcage, up through his throat, and out his mouth in a litany of denial that emerges instead as: “yes, y-yes, yes. God, yes.”

The creature above rewards him by licking the droplets rolling off his cheeks, by pressing the saltiness between their lips as Will’s mouth still forms tormented words of agreement. The unsettled dark mass beneath his eyelids unfurls and coils down his spine in satisfaction. 

“Good boy.”

The fingers within him press forward a final time, testing the depth of their claim and provoking another shattered cry from their conquest, before Hannibal withdraws them altogether. Will immediately mourns their loss, his bound body twisting to recapture the older man’s ministrations. He feels hollowed out, vulnerable, anxiety blossoming anew with every split second that Hannibal is not carving out space for himself beneath Will’s skin. He thinks he might be sobbing because the sight that greets his opening eyes is blurred beyond recognition.

A few tugs and the tie around his wrists comes undone and Will is surging forward, fingers drawing bloody scratches under the front of Hannibal’s shirt. His other hand fists the back of the doctor’s head, crashing their mouths together again and again with a half-cry, half-snarl. Fingernails scrape down expensive fabric, ripping away layers until Will can pull them closer still. 

“Will.”

A gentle but firm hand curls around his wrist. Hannibal guides their connected hands lower, placing Will’s against the button of tented dress pants before wrapping his own around the younger man’s neglected cock. Will shudders with renewed sensation.

“Unzip me,” Hannibal orders, and Will’s fingers hasten to obey. A languid stroke down his shaft freezes him for a moment, but the slight curl of Hannibal’s lips has him exhaling sharply and refocusing on the task at-hand. Will fumbles to unlatch the button from its mooring, to pull it through a well-tailored slit, before he finds the zipper and pulls the tab down the chain strip. His fingertips tremble as they reach between fabric folds to cup the older man through silk boxer briefs. 

The damp heat he finds there is a solid parallel to his own. He jolts when Hannibal sinks two fingers back into him, the intrusion still new and raw, but it relaxes him nonetheless.

A final squeeze around his cock then Will is being forced back to his knees. He trembles as Hannibal curls over him, heated anticipation of fulfillment gnashing at his bones. Arms extended, wrists together, a sacrifice stripped bare and awaiting slaughter.

_No_. Will glances up at the bloodied remains of his kill. The voice in his head purrs. _The feast is in my honor_. 

Freddie stares back as Hannibal slicks himself, lines them up. As Will prostrates himself further and opens to the pressure with a choked gasp. 

_This is my tribute_.  


He doesn’t break her gaze, his mind supplying fires of rebirth and condemnation alike in her lifeless eyes, until Hannibal pushes forward and the head of his cock breaches Will completely. 

Will shouts, scrabbles to get away on instinct. 

Hannibal is faster. 

He clamps teeth over the pulse point in Will’s neck and bites down, hard, until the cries devolve into whimpers and his body stops straining to escape. Hannibal presses a hand against his pounding heart, digs in. Extends a thumb to brush over a nipple. When the younger man jumps in surprise, Hannibal bites down again until Will moans and has no choice but to welcome him further in.

They both shiver as Hannibal sinks deeper, teeth and cock imprinting Will’s flesh with pride and possession. The older man gives him no time to adjust, pushing forward until there’s no more room to go, no crevice of Will’s body that hasn’t been invaded, gutted, replaced. Between desperate blinks to clear his vision, Will watches as the shadowed spikes of antlers creep along the straining muscles of his forearms, across the red-soaked floorboards, stretching and twisting under the light of the moon. He laughs, and laughs some more as a second pair twines through the jagged points of the first. 

Then Hannibal pulls back, buries himself to the hilt in one thrust, and Will loses his tenuous grasp on reality. 

“They can’t have you either.”

His senses narrowed to the burning weight in his gut, the fresh pain in his neck, the way his knees scrape against the floor with every push, Will hears the words through a haze. Dulcet tones caressing his face as his body is remade.

“You are mine, Will.”

_Yours_ , the dark thing inside him echoes. Then again, aloud, as Hannibal seals them tighter together and forces pain and pleasure through his veins with every stab against his prostate. 

“You always have been.”

Will nearly cries through his release, Hannibal’s hand barely brushing his length before he’s spilling against the floor. The older man guides him through it, emptying Will and filling him in turns until the younger man’s biting his own tongue to keep from screaming at the _too much too much_ sensation. Several more thrusts, several more moments of fighting not to fight, then Hannibal is growling and coming inside him.

Will floats.

When he comes down again, Hannibal has moved them. 

He’s leaning back, nearly sitting in the older man’s lap, and his skull rests against Hannibal’s shoulder. The position exposes his neck for the gentle fingers brushing over it. They circle the bite mark, lingering for a beat until Hannibal moves to kiss the forming bruise with reverence.

“Jesus,” Will exhales.

He feels Hannibal smirk before he turns to meet it. For once, the doctor does not offer a witty retort. The moment that passes between them, one in which Will settles further into the sharp ache that’s taken residence in his bones, remains silent. They’re still joined, the lines between them nonexistent. Possessing. Possessed.

The quiet lasts long enough for Will to drift off again, to where his stream is stained red and he’s no longer alone. 

“Thank you, Will.”

Will hums, turns to the other monster beside him.

“For what?”

“For allowing me to witness your becoming.”

Will snickers. “I think you did a little more than witness.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Hannibal concedes, lips forming a more genuine smile than Will can ever remember seeing from him. It twists his gut beneath the warm palm resting there. He curls his own hand over Hannibal’s, twining their fingers and catching his gaze with renewed intent. 

“Together.”

The bloodstained thing that grins back feels like the only thing that matters. 

“My beautiful, dangerous boy. Together, the world doesn’t stand a chance.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first thing I wrote for the Hannibal fandom, and it's been sitting on my computer for months. I figured more murder porn was always welcome, so I polished it up a bit and decided to post. Also, I hold no hate in my heart for Freddie Lounds. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it, and any feedback would be much appreciated~


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